The Memory is a Sword, the Dream a Hoped for Gift
by IcarusForgotten
Summary: AU: Written for the inspiration of "Pygmalion" - George Bernard Shaw, 1912 - and a dark reversion of "Cinderella". One is poor, the other rich. And a game is played with the hearts of both. TakanoxRitsu. Rated T for now, may evolve into M.


**Hello everyone! I'm back temporarily. I still can't give any promises for regular updates, but I will do my best. This is actually not the story that has been brooding in my mind over the past few months while I have been slaving through exams, but I just had to write it when I got struck with the idea!**

**Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it! :)**

He remembered it like it was yesterday. And that was the problem.

He took another drag from his cigarette, sheets pooling disorderedly at his waist, the lumpy mattress doing little to support his weight as it sagged beneath him, feeling a few more springs give way as he shifted his body to bring his knees up to his chest. He turned his face away from the newly rising sun stretching its fingered rays through the jaggedly ordered wooden blocks that were bolted to the window, resting his chin in his palms, elbow jammed into the crook between his knees.

Takano exhaled. Sharply. Mockingly. The rising smoke clouded his vision of the empty shack he had hoped to never see again. The smoke began to disperse and his memory returned, slamming into his brain so hard that he winced and pressed the tips of his fingers to his eyelids. He shook it off. This is my reality, he mused. And as if to mentally pinch himself, he swept his eyes about the empty recluse once again: broken floor boards, no windows aside from the boarded one behind him, a pile of three books tossed recklessly into a dirty corner, an out-of-place tuxedo hanging from the loosely bolted door, the only physical indication that it had not been a dream, and dust and grime maliciously caressing every possible surface imaginable. _Home sweet home_, he mused darkly, _how I've missed you_.

He tossed the half smoked cigarette onto the floor, not bothering to aim for the ashtray. Nothing to worry about anyway – concrete didn't combust into spectacular flames in the flash presence of a glowing cigarette butt. _If only – ha!_ He was becoming depressed. Not suicidal, not yet anyway. He was not the type to delve that far into his misery. Though now that he knew that there was no way imaginable for him to get back to what he needed to pretend was only a dream, he though why not? Especially since that tux was hanging by a splinter on the rugged door. It served as an unpleasant reminder. Though it held far too many memories – _promise me you won't leave like the others _ – and hopeless reveries – _don't fall into their system. you're just a puppet. to them. maybe even to me. careless. you are. _ – and failed promises –_no!_ – to be worth anything anymore. And maybe he was sadistic enough to want to revel in that. At least pain was some kind of reality. And this was his.

He closed his eyes and slumped back into his bed. Springs shrieked in opposition – he heard another one pop. He spread his limbs out to equalize as much of his weight as possible on the bed, like treading carefully on the surface of thin ice. And his heart. He had been careful for most of it. And that one night, that one secular _moment_, he had let his guard fall apart in whimsical disarray and pull him onto his knees in turgid repercussion. Against his own foolishness. Against his pitiful way of coming to think that they could actually find a way. Against him. And against himself.

He sighed and clambered slowly out of the bed, like an old man afraid to lose the alignment of his spine again. He picked up the gently smouldering cigarette butt from the concrete floor and headed over towards the hanging tuxedo. It coaxed him. And he was too proud.

So he placed the cigarette butt quietly in the pocket of the taunting suit.

And waited.

_Six months ago_:

Takano was taking a piss in a cardboard box. He thought he looked hard enough to make sure that the coast had been clear. Apparently not. Up beside him, in the darkness of the foggy back alley, pulled in a long, shiny black limousine. The window rolled down. Deep, violet eyes gazed at him as he finished emptying his bladder and tucking his dick back into his trousers.

"Boy, come here!" barked a gruff voice.

Takano decided to amuse him. Perhaps he would even be lucky enough to run away with his wallet if he maintained his charm and played it smooth.

"What can I do for you today, sir?"

"Cut the crap. Get in." The man replied.

Takano raised his eyebrow. Perhaps this would be easier than he'd initially thought. A small smirk began to play across his face. He covered his mouth with his hand, feigning a cough, and tried to repress it. The last thing he needed was to give his motives away.

As he began to approach the ostentatious vehicle, just before touching the handle of that shiny long car, two men, neither of them the gruff voiced stranger with purple eyes, shot out from the passenger seats and grabbed him, tying his hands behind his back and placing a potato bag over his head before shoving him violently into the car.

_This can't be good_, thought Takano.


End file.
